Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2)

by Caroline Ashton

  Bearing in mind the stringent instruction she had received to avoid the area at all times, Araminta crossed the square towards Piccadilly. Pegasus tossed his head and skittered his hooves on the ground. Araminta bounced in the saddle.

  ‘See how eager he is to gallop,’ she called to Mellor, using much of her skill to restrain him.

  Mellor’s thumbnail tore shorter.

  They had gone barely a dozen strides before Lord Frederick Danver and Everett Blythburgh emerged into the square from King Street. Neither had particularly enjoyed a night spent watching fools gamble away fortunes in White’s. They had intended a brief visit only but misfortune had struck. The Prince of Wales, followed by the more favoured members of his set, Viscount Trelowen included, had arrived as they were leaving the card room. Protocol dictated that no-one could leave before His Highness himself departed. The pair had no option but to stay. An evening of unsurpassed boredom had followed. By the time Prinny left, the pair emerged into the morning light tired and jaded.

  Despite the tendency of Lord Frederick’s eyes to droop they snapped open as they entered the square. ‘I say, Everett, there’s that horse again. My Lord, just look at its movement.’

  ‘Dash the horse, Freddie. The titian goddess is on it again.’ A shade of puzzlement imprinted itself on Mr Blythburgh’s brow. ‘Whatever is she doing here at this time of night?’

  Lord Frederick looked eagerly about the square. ‘She must reside hereabouts.’ There was no indication of precisely where that might be. His shoulders drooped. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Then I insist you ask your Mama. Such a divinity is not to remain unknown.’

  Lord Frederick brightened. ‘I wonder if she’d sell me her horse.’

  Everett Blythburgh sighed. ‘Freddie, much as I’ve liked you since we were children, you’re enough to try the patience of a saint. You’re obsessed by horseflesh. It excludes all other enchantments.’ His head wagged slowly. ‘No wonder Their Graces despair.’

  Araminta Neave was in no way despairing. Followed by a fretful Mellor she headed for the Row at a smart trot. At such an early hour, very little traffic barred her way. The few people about were servants and street sellers. A boy delivering wrapped goods here. A pieman with his tray on his head there. Milkmaids chattering at the entrance to Green Park.

  A few wagons were threading through the toll at Hyde Park. Araminta barely saw them, only that the Row was completely empty. No sooner had Pegasus’s hooves touched the gravel and tan than she nudged his side. The willing creature stretched his neck and sprang forward. Leaning towards his flying mane, delight covered her features.

  ‘At last,’ she gasped on a laugh. ‘No stupid gowns. No balancing books.’ She gurgled in pleasure. Beneath her, the thundering hooves repeated At last. At last. At last.

  Mellor took several moments to close his gaping mouth and set off after her. His staid nag could not hope to catch the flying girl. Mellor’s fears drummed it its hooves. Please stay on. Please stay on. Please stay on.

  Araminta had turned at the far end and was galloping back before Mellor had reached midway. Skirts flying, revealing shift and boots she waved her whip at him. ‘Come on, Mellor. This is wonderful.’

  The groom turned his nag into her wake. Four of Pegasus’s strides further on the wind from his speed snatched the bonnet from Araminta’s curls. It arched into the air to land at the nag’s feet. The horse skittered. Mellor muttered under his breath. He alighted to rescue the bonnet from the dust. His muttering continued until he handed it to a flushed and laughing Araminta at the entrance.

  ‘Wasn’t that marvellous?’ she demanded. She took the bonnet, rammed it on her head and stuffed an escaping tress under it. ‘Marvellous. We will do it every morning.’

  After three more gallops up and down the Row, Mellor devoutly wished Miss would change her mind.

  Araminta rode home happier than she had been for several days and promising herself that a good gallop in the morning would allow her to keep her promise to her father with a happy heart.

  Chapter Seven

  Lord Frederick needed no urging from his friend to discover the identity of the horse’s owner. Once home, he paced the drawing room casting repeated glances at the ormolu clock on the mantle. The Duchess usually woke about eleven if she had been gallivanting the night before. Even if this morning was an exception and she was up before time, he was not going to chance his luck by venturing to her boudoir to early. The hands crept round until he felt the moment had come to brave the frilled and flounced room.

  He bounded up the stairs and tapped on her door. A tall, thin woman in a dark gown opened it. When she saw who was waiting she slid discretely out of the room leaving mother and son alone. Shortly thereafter Frederick discovered to his great disappointment that his Mama was not disposed to assist. She lay back on the small mountain of lace-trimmed pillows at the head of her vast bed looking the depiction of fragile elegance. Her pale gold hair, still without a single grey strand, descended in a plait from her embroidered cap. She waved a delicate hand in his direction. A scrap of handkerchief wafted from it.

  ‘Darling, I have no idea who she is.’

  ‘But mightn’t your maid at least know who’s rented the house?’

  The Duchess of Ellonby shrugged a pair of smooth cream shoulders under the silk nightgown. The cashmere shawl draped around them slid sideways. She pulled it closer. ‘She may have mentioned it. I cannot recall.’

  Her son flung away from the bed and came to rest at the end of it, his shoulder propped against the nearest of the carved posts that supported the damask canopy above. His weight caused the silver fringe on the canopy and bed drapes to shiver. ‘But it’s a wonderful stallion, Mama. If I put Athena to him the foals . . . well –’

  The Duchess gasped. She clapped her hands over her ears. ‘Do not say so, darling. Farmyard talk is most improper.’

  Frederick sighed. ‘Of course, Mama. I beg your pardon.’ He walked to plant a kiss upon her hand. ‘But I do wish you would discover who has taken the Perlethorpe’s house.’

  A sigh drifted from the Duchess’s rosy lips. ‘I suppose I might try. I might try harder if it were a girl that had attracted your interest and not a horse.’ The handkerchief fluttered. ‘I quite despair of ever seeing one of you wed.’

  ‘But we’re neither of us thirty yet, Mama. There’s plenty of time.’

  ‘That’s as may be but you know how anxious His Grace is to secure the succession.’ A pair of moistening blue eyes gazed up at him from under the lacy cap.

  ‘Don’t distress yourself, ma’am.’ Frederick caught her hand. ‘There’s no need. Papa will be with us for years yet.’

  The blue eyes grew moister. They sent a silent plea to him.

  Frederick sighed. ‘Very well, Mama. I’ll speak to George again. Though why he should heed me and not His Grace, I’m sure I don’t know.’

  The Duchess detached her hand and patted his arm. ‘You’re a good boy. I’m sure you will persuade him.’

  ‘I’ll try, ma’am. Now, excuse me.’ He bowed and left her to the rest of her toilette.

  The Duchess reached out to tug the tassel descending from the long embroidered bell-pull. Moments later the tall, thin woman in the dark gown returned. She began to lay out a selection of morning gowns.

  ‘I hope Lord Frederick was well, Your Grace.’

  A sigh, well able to match her son’s, slid from the Duchess’s pretty mouth. ‘I suppose so. But he did nought else than chatter about some horse he’s seen. I fear he has more interest in finding another of them than giving any thought to finding a bride.’ The second sigh was louder. ‘And then there’s George for ever pushing for a commission. Thank goodness that dreadful campaigning in Portugal has ended and they will all come home.’ The handkerchief drifted to a delicate tear. ‘I declare, Mitcham, I despair of either of them marrying before . . .’ Her
soft voice became totally suspended.

  ‘I’m sure both of them will find themselves a young lady worthy of their attentions very soon, Your Grace,’ Mitcham said stoutly. She held up a striking gown of deep mauve silk, thickly scalloped around the hem with rippling frills caught up with bows and miniature silk violets. ‘This, Your Grace?’

  The Duchess waved it away. ‘For anyone to catch either of their attentions it will take a girl dressed as an infantry drummer for George or mounted on a horse for Frederick.’

  Mitcham elevated a rose-pink gown for inspection. She smoothed her fingers over the cream Valenciennes lace trimming the neckline. ‘They say the Neave girl in Lady Perlethorpe’s house rode out on a wondrous grey this morning. Long before decent people were awake.’

  ‘Did she?’ The Duchess nodded at the pink charmeuse. ‘Yes, that one. I’ll have my rose slippers with it. The ones with the bows. And my Norwich shawl.’

  Mitcham laid the gown across the foot of the bed and hurried forward to assist Her Grace to rise.

  ‘I suppose that must be the horse that Freddie has spoken of,’ the Duchess said. ‘I wonder if the girl owns it?’

  Mitcham noted the comment.

  While his Mama was being helped into her gown, Lord Frederick removed himself to his own bedchamber with desultory steps. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his pantaloons and propped a shoulder against the painted shutter folded back from the tall window. His room on the third floor overlooked the square. The house from which Araminta had emerged was clearly visible. He stared at it.

  His valet, one Horace Kidwall, cast one look at his master’s face and forbore to speak. It was unlike his young lordship to be gloomy. His current lowering expression was a rare sight. Kidwall hovered by the clothes press. After several minutes his master turned.

  ‘I’ll ride.’

  ‘Certainly, my lord. Do you wish to change to your green?’

  Frederick stared down at his newest tailcoat of fine blue broadcloth. The fit was excellent. Everett had persuaded him to adopt it as suitable, and fashionable, for a noble scion. It usually took Kidwall several minutes of intense effort to lever him into it. However the constraint it forced upon his movements irritated Frederick. Particularly now, when frustration and disappointment bore heavily upon him. It was bearable for strolling, sitting and so forth but for riding? No. He had changed into it after arriving home this morning in hopes of pleasing his Mama.

  Kidwall coughed.

  Recalled to the mundane, Frederick said, ‘Very well. Bring it out.’

  Kidwall removed the alternative from the clothes press and placed it on the bed. With gentle hands he eased the double-breasted broadcloth from his master’s robust person and laid it beside the coat Lord Frederick much preferred. He wished his lordship would return to the country estate. He himself much favoured life there and he knew his master was of similar mind. The dark green coat was on in moments.

  ‘And the breeches, sir?’

  The buckskin breeches he was wearing were also new. As yet they were unstretched by any activity.

  Frederick nodded. He allowed his valet to replace them with a pair that was most certainly bagging at the knees. Finally clad and equipped to his satisfaction with a beaver on his head and a whip in his hand, he descended to the hall. Kidwall hurried down the back stairs to send for the young master’s horse to be fetched from the mews.

  Disappointed in his quest to identify the grey’s owner, it was a very apathetic young man who rode out of the Square. Several of his acquaintances strolling up St James’ Street received no more than a perfunctory wave of a hand. His mood lightened the closer he came to Hyde Park Corner. Perhaps the object of his interest might still be riding there. Even if she was being conveyed in a carriage, it must present an opportunity.

  He was destined for disappointment. Araminta was not present. Lucius Renford, however, was. He hailed Frederick from the saddle of his hired hack.

  ‘In the name of all that’s fashionable, what’s that on your back?’

  Frederick looked at his green cuff. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  Viscount Trelowen raised his eyeglass and examined the garment from collar to tails. ‘Everything, dear boy, everything. You look as if you’re some sort of country squire.’ The eyeglass lowered. ‘Are you about to rusticate yourself?’

  A twinge of annoyance flitted into Frederick’s tone. ‘No I’m not. I can’t see the point of wearing what’s little more than a corset for riding.’

  ‘My, my. What has stung you this day?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. It happened that I’ve seen the horse I wanted.’

  ‘The grey that amazingly clad person bought at Tatt’s?’

  Frederick brightened. ‘That’s the one. I’d quite forgot you’d seen it. I don’t suppose you know the fellow’s name do you?’

  Trelowen shook his head. ‘Not at all. He rushed off before giving it.’

  ‘Dashed thing. I know he lives opposite but I can’t find out who he is.’

  Trelowen’s attention sharpened. ‘Opposite?’

  ‘Yes. He’s taken the Perlethorpe house apparently.’

  ‘Ah.’ Trelowen recalled the terse conversation he had had with Griggs two days ago. Webb’s failure did not matter now. The pair could make recompense by finding the man’s name now he knew where he lived. Servants always gossiped. After that, well, Trelowen had contacts who would tell him all he might wish to know about the purchaser and the woman who was, apparently, his wife.

  The approach of a rather ancient brougham-landaulet distracted him. Two ladies, neither of whom could be described as young, sat in it.

  ‘Oh, it’s the Berrys. Forgive me, dear boy, I cannot stand their blue-stocking chatter.’

  Frederick pulled his horse round until he could see the object of Trelowen’s derision. He recognised the ladies referred to were the Misses Mary and Agnes Berry. They were renowned for holding informal salons where varied classes of persons attended. His brother George had once persuaded their Mama to visit after he had heard that Sir Arthur Wellesley was occasionally seen there. Frederick heaved a massive sigh. Trust George to push everyone towards his own advantage. That time had been no different. The Duchess was a doting mother and had obliged. Even so, she had only gone once.

  ‘Dearest,’ she had announced upon her return. ‘Please do not beg me to go again. It was such a trial. Sir Arthur was not there. He’s in Ireland, or somewhere, and I was forced to listen to an artist person for hours on end while he favoured me with his new approach to the painting of light on trees. I declare I have never been so fatigued.’

  The carriage drew closer. Left alone, Lord Frederick had no option but to rein alongside it and make his duties. ‘Miss Berry.’ He bowed. ‘Miss Agnes. Delighted to see you again. You are so infrequently here.’

  Miss Agnes smiled upon him, her eyes sparkling. ‘I agree we hate to leave dear Little Strawberry Hill but we heard that Drury Lane might stage Mary’s Fashionable Friends again so we are here for a few days.’

  Frederick managed to link the Drury Lane reference to the theatre therein but the Fashionable Friends one quite escaped him. ‘Ah, indeed. Excellent.’ He bowed again.

  ‘How is your dear Mama?’ Miss Berry enquired. ‘It is quite a time since we had the pleasure of her company.’

  ‘Er . . . um, really, ma’am, is it? I had no idea.’ With the Duchess’s comments he had just recalled still fresh in his mind, Frederick shifted on his saddle.

  Miss Berry took pity upon him. ‘I am teasing. I think your Mama found Mr Chiltington’s enthusiasm difficult to follow.’

  Frederick ploughed through his memory but could not find a Mr Chiltington among his acquaintances. ‘I’m sure not, ma’am,’ he lied. ‘I’m sure Her Grace enjoyed her visit tremendously.’ He nudged his horse’s offside flank with a heel. The animal skitter
ed sideways. ‘I must beg you to excuse me, ma’am. I fear he has the fidgets.’

  The Berry sisters were renowned for their lively intellect and sense of humour. Mary Berry had no difficulty in assessing who had the fidgets. ‘Off you go then, Lord Frederick. Give our greetings to your Mama.’

  Relieved, Frederick bowed again and trotted away.

  Chapter Eight

  Lord Frederick’s despair at ever achieving an introduction to the magnificent horsewoman and thereafter persuading her to let him borrow her horse for his favourite mare deepened. He could hardly present himself on her doorstep or approach her in the Row without an introduction. He set his mind to ponder how he could persuade his Mama to leave a card at the house opposite. He would have been considerably cheered to know that the actions of three spinster ladies were, indirectly, helping his cause the following morning.

  First by Wilhelmina Orksville’s designs. Despite the remoteness of Yorkshire, she was by no means an unknown provincial nobody. Her antecedents were immaculate, thanks to her paternal family line which led back to the Earls of Guiseley and hence the Dukes of Cropton. If she called upon her maternal grandmother’s Irish family, she could, if the line were traced sufficiently through various relatives and connections, claim Sir Arthur Wellesley as a distant cousin. Nor was she ignorant of current events. Her purchase of The London Gazette – despite the iniquitous tax upon such newspapers – kept her up to date with the world in general. Added to that, a lively correspondence with Mary Berry and several of London’s major hostesses added interesting, private detail.

  Because of her own connections to Sir Arthur and the Berrys, the second strand of the tactics Wilhelmina had selected was to introduce Araminta into a circle where she would meet them all. Mr Neave frequently mentioned the commander’s gratitude for his dependability in providing for the army in India. Far too frequently in her opinion as she decried name-dropping. Nonetheless, it provided an entrée for Araminta which was too precious to ignore. Miss Orksville had decided to introduce the girl at the Berrys’ next gathering.